


Speak to Me

by Schemilix



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schemilix/pseuds/Schemilix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was my attempt to write two characters in bed who I would never in a million years be able to see in bed normally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Probably one of my only fics not technically part of the Blood and Gold thing. It follows the same headcanons and so forth, but unlike the others this isn't 'canon' to the arc for obvious reasons.

Battle wounds he is accustomed to, their dull ache and itch, the natural progression of blood through scar through pale streak like brown earth re-becoming forest. Inch by inch, he is taken apart and remade whole. Some scars remain, criss-crossing, and he remembers each. He is young enough to remember each. Others like his father must have forgotten most by now, a patchwork of faded memories.

He almost welcomes them; adrenaline numbs pain, and when he must sleep on this side or that to escape the discomfort hidden by bandages it is a reminder that he lives.

But the bruises and cuts he gets out of battle, they stay with him. They keep him awake even when he has slept through greater aches. Rather than strength they are failure. He should be used to them by now, since he has been healing from them far longer than any battle-scars but he is not. 

Some days he thinks of how he has kept ointments for bruises and scrapes for as long as he can remember, until it has become normality. It surely must not be normality, he thinks, for everyone his age. Does every boy flinch wth genuine fear when their father shouts? 

He wonders if he should pity himself, but all he feels is disgust. If he knew this was how his father felt when he dressed his own wounds thirty or more years ago, he might feel worse.

Frustration makes his hands shake, which makes him aggravate his bruises, which only makes him more frustrated. When the door knocks he nearly throws something, anything at the door, nearly shouts, ‘Get fucked!’. The thought that it is his father - the man he would most like to shout such things at - stays him, and he only grunts, kicking the medicine box under his bed with his heel without thinking.

The door doesn’t open and with a muttered curse, Izlude pulls it open.

”What is it- Wiegraf?” his voice wavers with surprise. Wiegraf has become increasingly reclusive, speaking only to his sister and the birds.

The ex-brigand looks as haggard as usual. Still he feels something in his chest give, and rubs his cheek with a scowl, pretending to be tired. If he blushes he will never forgive himself.

Izlude always feels like he should be looking up at him, rather than down, but then he was always a damnably tall lad, prone to knocking his head on things. 

They say that the biggest hounds act the smallest, and so it is with Izlude. He slouches, sits when others stand, ducks his head; anything to be smaller, to escape notice. He never thinks to use his size to command respect like his straight-spined father does. 

”I saw what it is he did,” Wiegraf says. He half-swallows the words even as he speaks them, spending half the time looking over Izlude’s shoulder rather than at his face. “I’ll listen if you… need someone.” Then he seems to realise what he’s doing and makes to leave. Confused and even irritated, Izlude lets him get a few paces before saying,

”No… stay. But why?”

Without turning, Wiegraf tugs down the edge of his scarf, showing livid bruising on the back of his neck.

"Quite convenient I was in the habit of wearing this before, neh? I avoided you because you… look like him. Mayhap I feel guilty. Or mayhap I feel a kinship with you.” 

Wiegraf blinks once or twice, looking almost dazed at his own honesty. 

”I’m not… well,” he says at length. “And nor are you.”

Izlude almost glares at him for that comment and starts to say, ‘I’m fine’ and then stops, noting Wiegraf’s almost imperceptible nod. Then he realises that what he can’t admit to his sister he can admit to this half-broken swordsman standing at his door, out of nowhere. Cynically, he thinks it may be because his judgement is disposable, and Meliadoul’s is not.

”Get in here,” he grunts, tugging Wiegraf inside and closing the door. He feels him flinch and wonders if Wiegraf really came to comfort him. No doubt that was his intention. Perhaps he does not realise how tired and alone he looks of late. The armour masks his fatigue both inside and out but in his day-clothes he looks both older and younger than his years. 

For a moment Izlude hesitates before taking the medicine box back out and returning to his wounds.

”Just what did you see?” he asks, finding it easier to speak to his hands as he works. 

”He doesn’t go for your face,” Wiegraf says, by way of explaining.

”Of course not. He’s smarter than that.” Izlude tosses the salve back into the box with a contemptuous flick of his hand. He looks up as if to ask a question but Wiegraf intercepts,

”I didn’t help because… I would like to say I could not have. Or it would only make matters worse. But in sooth I was… frightened.” He sighs. “I know you think of me as strong. I will have to disappoint you for I am just a low-born mongrel who… misses his sister very much.”

He smiles despite his words and even though it doesn’t reach his eyes, Izlude smiles back. 

At first the newcomer with his gruff demeanour, how he swore during his annointment, glared at anyone approaching and hackled like a wild dog at the others - he was frightening. 

Izlude thinks he likes girls, getting distracted and giddy during practice from the archers’ exposed legs and no such nonsense from the bare-chested monks. But Wiegraf’s smile makes him weak. He would prefer to have remained afraid of the gold-haired Templar than question himself like this.

He would dismiss it as a confused form of respect or admiration but the thought of him has kept him awake at night a few times too many for him to deceive himself that way. When they spar his skin burns and he always loses, though he thinks he must be stronger.

”Sit, Wiegraf,” he says as he dresses a scrape. Better safe than infected. It gratifies him that his voice is even despite his lingering fear and Wiegraf’s damnably distracting presence. It is as if the man’s aura fills the room - a born leader’s trait which he himself lacks- but it is strangely calming. “Clearly he has hurt you. Why?” 

”The same for which he hurts you, I imagine. Control or… anger… I am unsure.” Wiegraf sighs as he sits down. Despite looking so tired his back is straight, his muscles tense either from a natural military bearing or a habitual, dogged alertness. Or perhaps pain. Or all three. There is a pride to his bearing even now that Izlude envies. 

”He just hates me,” Izlude mutters. “Maybe he hates you too. He hates fucking everyone.”

”Do you hate him?”

”Sometimes I wish he was dead,” Izlude says without passion. “But… it’s like all I want is for him to notice me. Not even just so he stops hitting me.” He tries to laugh but it comes out more like a hiccup. 

”Perhaps… if he did to you what… he has done to me… I would do my best to kill him.”

Izlude watches his face, then decides not to pry. “I’m strangely flattered.”

”Be thankful it does not come to that. I have been taught that vengeance does not undo damage wrought.”

”And yet still you pursue it?”

Wiegraf is silent for a long time and Izlude is beginning to apologise before Wiegraf says,

”I do. I have nothing else, Izlude. Nothing. No family. My friends died, because of me.” Izlude has heard things; he sees in Wiegraf’s eyes a blade impaling an old friend. Before he thinks, he places a hand on Wiegraf’s shoulder. He feels the man tense and then, feeling what it is, relax slightly.

”I do not… cannot know your pain, Wiegraf. But without Meliadoul I, too, am alone.” The thought alone twists at him.

”She is your elder also. Were she younger you would understand the need to protect her. When you hold a fragile body in your arms and watch it grow… and then you must… must bury… her and everything you fought for.” Wiegraf’s voice cracks and he looks down, shutting his eyes. He breathes deeply, shaking with it, before opening them again. “This is not why I came here. Forgive me.”

Izlude squeezes gently. “There is nothing to forgive.”

”Gods, Izlude. Care for your sister. She knows you think yourself a burden but… she needs you. You are her light.”

Izlude looks away for a moment. That she relies on him chafes. He knows he can only be a disappointment, someone to be saved. Perhaps it is that she needs something to protect, he thinks, because he has nothing to give to her.

”I’m glad you are there for her,” he admits. “There are some things a sister cannot tell her little brother. Does she know - “

”No.”

”I suppose she would not accept it like I do. I love her but she… is blind.” Izlude pauses for a moment. “If you need to cry, I won’t judge you. I’ll cry too, if it’ll help. We all cry alone but we all need to get someone’s shirt wet once in a while.”

To his surprise, Wiegraf laughs. In fact, Wiegraf looks surprised at himself.

”You’re a good man, Tengille,” he says, shaking his head. “A good and strange man.”

”Well, at least you’re not calling me ‘boy’.”

”You have a man’s strength.”

Izlude shakes Wiegraf’s shoulder in protest. “I’m just big.”

”I mean strength of will. Don’t give me that look, I have been trained to know a man’s virtues from his eyes. You are strong.” Wiegraf looks at him seriously and Izlude looks away, abashed, dropping his hand back into his lap. He wonders if force of will can stop him from flushing at the compliment; a trait he has had since young girls and pretty ladies called him handsome as a child.

”Suddenly I feel like I’ve known you a long time,” Izlude confesses.

”It has been a fair amount of time,” Wiegraf points out. The tension in his shoulders is lifting though he still gesticulates little. 

”Yes, seeing you skulking in shadows and avoiding mass, what a friendship we have!”

”We have sparred. And I have thrashed you soundly each time, thank you. That is a fast route to knowing a man…”

Izlude cringes at the numerous memories of being routed and then, made daring by the surreality of their new friendship, says,

”May I tell you a secret?”

Wiegraf shrugs, not hearing any darkness in his tone. “I see no reason why not, if you trust me.”

”You always win because I…” Izlude begins, and then peters out, wondering why he even started. 

”Can’t spar?” Wiegraf teases, and that tears it.

”Tch! Because I feel for you as I do the girls. When you touch me I feel strange. I cannot focus,” he confesses almost aggressively, and looks him in the eye. Then he plucks at a stray fiber and says. “It’s foolish. Maybe a product of my age. They would burn me if they knew. The gods know Father would beat it out of me…”

”I have my own secrets. I have never touched a woman.”

”Of course, you’re a White Knight.”

”Yes, but I once shared a bed with a comrade of mine. Your distractions are angel’s feathers next to my sins of the flesh, ser Tengille.” He coughs. “More than once, in fact. Not many times but more than once…”

For a moment Izlude is confused and then must focus on not thinking too hard on what Wiegraf just said. 

”Well I confess that I was not expecting that.”

”Your paragon of purity is a man too. Your feelings will fade and perhaps no other man will interest you, but even if they do, I have come to learn that it matters little. Or perhaps I am lying to myself because, as my… friend said, we are told that which we enjoy must be sinful.”

”You enjo- um… I see, Folles.” 

”Sooth! I have never seen a man go so red!”

”I! Am not red!” Izlude nearly shouts the words.

”Tch, and the sky is as green as your robe. Pull the other one.” 

”Must you tease me so?”

”Come now, ‘tis only talk. You must know worse.” When Izlude doesn’t reply, Wiegraf nearly chuckles.

”I haven’t been touched,” Izlude says rather feebly. Wiegraf raises an eyebrow.

"No?"

"Of course not - "

"You’re just very, ah - " Wiegraf struggles for a word. "…desireable. To women I mean."

Izlude feels a twitch of his mother mischief and smiles. “So not you?”

Instantly the mischief leaves him and he resists the urge to shuffle away, instead folding his arms in an attempt to look defiant. His blush must be down to his elbows by now, he thinks.

Wiegraf starts to move away and it gratified Izlude to see that even grown warriors can be flustered. He leans forward to take his wrist and says, “But we have to start somewhere?” Neither pulls away.

"Izlude -" 

"We go to Orbonne tomorrow. I wouldn’t like to die without knowing…" He smiles again, rubbing the back of his neck where his hair prickles. Audacity seems to be the best way to proceed since if he is to go down in flames, he may as well do so with an extraordinary amount of balls. “Knowing you, maybe.”

"This isn’t why I - "

"I know."

"I shouldn’t -"

Izlude puts a hand over his mouth, feeling strangely childish. Wiegraf’s green eyes make him dizzy.

”If you want to. Or we can never speak of this again. Perhaps if we… I will… be able to focus, er…”

"Pardon?" Wiegraf’s voice is muffled, making Izlude let him go.

"You didn’t notice? I was terrified it was obvious." He clears his throat. "The things you make me think are very… unpriestly."

”I will confess that I have never thought of you in such a way. You are quite young, it would not be honourable.”

Izlude would have expected nothing less. “Well. I want you to think now.” This is of course reckless, and quite ridiculous, but he thinks of how much his fingers prickle at the thought of touching Wiegraf and fails to care - because he is young and stifled and wants to be free and foolish.

In way of response Wiegraf frees his hand with a quick movement and, before Izlude can begin apologising for his outburst, pulls him close and kisses his mouth.

This at least Izlude is accustomed to, albeit not with the faint scratch of late-day stubble. The electric thrill only a youth can feel makes him easily forget his doubts, though he is still unsure where to put his hands. They sit at his sides and, come to think of it, they feel liquid and he might not be able to move them even if he knew where.

He recovers his senses enough to wrap his arms around Wiegraf and, drawing away from him says,

”I don’t know what I want you to do. I just… know I want you to do it,” not caring how nonsensical it must sound. Sense or no sense, the sentiment is true; right now, so long as it’s him, he doesn’t particularly care what. 

Usually any man this close, even Loffrey who would never hurt him, feels threatening. But like this… 

”Wiegraf… do you now you… make me feel safe?” He isn’t sure why he says it, and the words make him seem small, more fragile than he would ever want to admit. 

Wiegraf only says, “Good,” and kisses the corner of his mouth. In response Izlude turns his head and kisses him open-mouthed, letting his nails dig into the skin on Wiegraf’s neck above his scarf, where he isn’t bruised. Then, on a whim, he tugs at it until it comes off, then gingerly touches the bruises. Back, front and sides. He can feel the rapid pulse.

”Those’re…” he breathes, and Wiegraf pushes his hand away gently. Izlude, understanding the gesture, doesn’t resist.

”Yes.”

”Why don’t you just leave?” Izlude asks. He can’t keep the anger out of his voice.

”I need to kill Ramza. Something I cannot do alone.”

Wiegraf thinks back to his recruitment, the first hope in a year, however bitter and pathetic.

”I thought you above that.”

”If he killed Meliadoul - “

” - I would be the same.” Izlude falls quiet then, looking down.

”Enough talk,” Wiegraf says. “I must ask you not to pin me down.”

”Why would I do that?”

”Maybe by mistake. I just… must feel as though I could escape, if I chose. I hope you take no offence.”

”Alright,” Izlude says quietly, looking at the bruises on his neck and wondering. Then, for lack of certainty on what to do next, he unrolls his sleeves and pulls his shirt off. Wiegraf lets him go to free his own arms and do the same.

Izlude feels conscious of the bruising now that it is clear that they are neither from training or battle. Then Wiegraf runs a hand from his stomach up over his chest, his throat, to brush his jaw with a calloused thumb, unhurriedly. He touches his lips and smiles, faintly, making Izlude laugh and take the hand in both of his. It feels quite strange to him that their hands are the same size. 

”So foolish,” he murmurs, kissing his knuckles. Wiegraf makes a mock curtsy at the gesture and Izlude snorts gracelessly.

”For a moment I felt like a proper lady,” Wiegraf jokes. Izlude rolls his eyes and kisses his fingertips instead.

”Touch me like that again,” he says and Wiegraf does, with both his hands this time, cupping them behind Izlude’s head and pulling him close to kiss him. The air in the room is cool and Wiegraf’s skin is warm, almost feverish, when Izlude leans into him chest-to-chest and returns the kiss. He feels a jolt in his nerves as if Wiegraf were fire-hot or electric all the same. 

Taking Izlude’s hands, Wiegraf moves them behind him puts them on his hips, putting his tongue into the kiss as he does. Izlude’s pulse quickens until he can feel it, becomes conscious of every inch of his skin until he can’t take it and breaks the kiss, kissing Wiegraf’s throat and his chest and pushing him down onto the bed - but mindful to spread his weight either side of him, not to pin him down. He looks up briefly, to check his face, and sees a flicker of gratitude rather than fear or discomfort.

Then he stops and says,

”Wiegraf. I am actually… unsure how one is meant to… bed a fellow man.”

Wiegraf props himself up on an elbow. “There are ways. Get the rest of your clothes off… better to show than tell.” 

At Wiegraf’s brazen honesty Izlude flushes again and then, rallying, does as told. He does his best to forget that this is the first time he has been naked in front of anyone not his family, excluding one awkward incident involving a bathing prank, and can’t quite mask his urge to cover himself enough not to bend over slightly.

”Relax, Izlude,” Wiegraf says, pushing his shoulder to make him straighten. “You certainly have nothing to be ashamed of.”

”Nu-or… n… nor do you,” Izlude stammers, his sentence clattering to a halt when he looks up to see Wiegraf naked as the day he was born and leaning on his arm, looking amused. “You- gods-“ 

Wiegraf turns his head aside a little, clearing his throat. “Well I haven’t felt this appreciated in a while.”

”S-sorry-“

”Don’t be,” Wiegraf says, chuckling. “Now come here.”

He does so and nearly yelps when Wiegraf takes hold of his necklace and pulls him forward until he unbalances and has to place his hands either side of Wiegraf’s chest. 

”May I touch you?” Wiegraf asks and Izlude, taking a moment to understand when they are already touching, swallows and nods. Like most his age he is not unfamiliar with being touched but it feels different, somehow, and he can’t keep from making a strange noise in his throat as Wiegraf strokes him to hardness. 

Then he lets go and, cupping his hands around Izlude’s thighs, Wiegraf pulls him close until their hips touch.

”Oh,” is all Izlude can say, since it doesn’t take much imagination to understand the knight’s intention. Wiegraf shifts to put his weight on one arm and with the other starts to stroke them both together.

”Now, move,” he whispers. His voice, naturally hoarse, takes on an even smokier quality as he no longer masks his lust; Izlude doesn’t need telling twice. It takes a few movements before he finds a spot that makes them both shiver. When Wiegraf closes his eyes Izlude lets himself watch him, fascinated by the way he moves when not conscious of himself. He feels his own consciousness slip away, not being watched, and brushes his lips against Wiegraf’s neck. The rasp against his lips should bother him. Instead he just nuzzles under his jaw until Wiegraf turns and kisses him, leaning up to meet him with his lips parted and his eyes still shut. 

Once or twice Izlude’s rhythm slips, distracted by pleasure or how his arms start to weaken. Then Wiegraf will guide him back. Wiegraf whispers something which Izlude can only assume is nonsense and leans back again, his chest rising and falling with steady but uneven breaths. Izlude can hear the breath in his throat, the faint catching of his voice as he swallows a moan. His lip hurts from when he bit it to quiet himself and, instead, he muffles his quiet cries into his hand, much as it makes his other arm bear all his weight, and ache. He can barely feel it through his skin prickling and the familiar white heat pooling in his stomach. 

Fearing like many young men finishing first, he slows, but Wiegraf only opens his eyes to look at him and strokes him over the edge instead. 

Izlude bites his arm hard enough to hurt but doesn’t notice or even feel it through the way his back arches and sends jolts through his arms all the way to his fingers. When he regains his senses he has knelt up almost entirely, panting with effort. 

Without overthinking he slicks his fingers with his tongue and replaces Wiegraf’s hand, watching the way the pleasure toys with Wiegraf until he, too, is as helpless as Izlude. Wiegraf scratches his stomach as he comes, not deeply, and the feeling of the blunt nails on Izlude’s sweat-slicked skin is more pleasant than painful.

Wiegraf is much quieter than him but he still gasps, twists under him, until he goes slack and buries his face in the crook of his arm, panting as heavily as Izlude knows he must be. 

They stay that way a moment until Izlude moves away, no longer conscious of his nakedness, and leans with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front. He leans his head back until it knocks against the hard surface and exhales heavily.

”If I die tomorrow,” he says, “it will be knowing that I didn’t miss out for my whole life.” 

Wiegraf chuckles at that, sitting up and stretching. 

”A hand can’t make up for the feeling of another person’s skin.”

”You look very… when you… finished you were very… I liked watching you,” Izlude admits. “So that too.”

”So demure now, Tengille?” Wiegraf teases. Izlude sees him reach for his shirt and grabs his arm to stop him. He holds him until Wiegraf meets his eyes.

”Would you… stay? It’s night now. It seems we have so much to talk about and damn little time to,” he confesses.

Wiegraf snorts. “Tchyah, you speak as if we /will/ die tomorrow. ‘Tis the Virgo Stone I know, but we have faced worse and emerged victorious.”

”Aye but… Beoulve. He is making himself known as a threat, is he not? And I will face him. Perhaps you, too, will face him.” Izlude pauses. “If I fall.”

”We will see about that. If he gets the better of you, run, live. He is, after all… mine. God forbid you need vengeance with the pathetic fervour I do.”

Wiegraf looks solemn at that, pulling the blanket further around him.

”In fact I… admire your tenacity.” With that Izlude takes ets and moves next to Wiegraf so their shoulders touch, throwing it around them both. The heat of their climax is wearing off and the night grows chill. 

”I will speak to you, though,” Wiegraf says, as though being coerced. “You have a pleasant voice.”

”It’s far too deep…”

”Ah, but soft. Hm, I like that. Levigne squawks. Many men sound like a grizzly bear. You, you would make a good orator.”

”Oh, please.”

Izlude falls quiet then, catches himself picking at a scab and then stops.

”It’s strange. I don’t love you, but you make me feel… more alive,” he says.

”Ah, the candour and passion of youth. I am glad for that.” Wiegraf puts his arm around Izlude’s waist, reclining with him in tow. “Now speak to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Which comrade I'll leave to your imagination, largely because I lost the ficlet I did for those two explaining it.)


End file.
